My Last Breath
by Miss Pookamonga
Summary: ..."Man doth not yield himself to the angels, nor unto death utterly, save only through the weakness of his feeble will." A POE-INSPIRED horror!fic written in honor of Halloween featuring Helen Magnus, Nikola Tesla, and of course, a Poe favorite--death.


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Dear Readers,

_Just in time for Halloween, I present to you my latest fic, born out of an obsession with _Sanctuary_ and an obsession with Poe. I wanted to do a horror-type fic for the holiday, and after reading Poe's short story "Ligeia" for English class, the mighty G threw an idea at my head (as He so often does) and thus, this story was conceived. What it came out to be is actually a mix among "Ligeia", "Annabel Lee", and Mary Shelley's _Frankenstein _(which, I have to admit, I have not yet read, but everyone knows the basic story). Given the inspirational background of the story, it naturally follows that you should be prepared for an abundance of dark weirdness that at some points don't make much sense. But, hey, I love Poe, and it's Halloween. So I hope you enjoy--and don't forget to drop a review ;)_

_Best regards from a Bookworm (and Tesla-obsessed fangirl),_

_Miss Pookamonga ;-P_

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**_dedicated to all the "Tesla Troopers" on GateWorld :)_**

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**My Last Breath**

* * *

"_But our love it was stronger by far than the love_

_Of those who were older than we—_

_Of many far wiser than we—_

_And neither the angels in heaven above,_

_Nor the demons down under the sea,_

_Can ever dissever my soul from the soul_

_Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE…"_

—_from "Annabel Lee" by Edgar Allan Poe_

* * *

She lies motionless upon the bed, a statue enshrined in lifelessness.

And he, very much alive, crouches over her, drowning her body in the torment of his sorrow.

She is dead.

And there is nothing that can will her back to life.

She fought so passionately, so resolutely against the enemy, battling ruthlessly until the very end. Her will was strong enough to overcome the multitude of painful blows that rained down upon her from every unforeseen direction, peppering her with wound after wound in the chaotic storm that was one of her far too dangerous "missions." But even then, her resolute spirit was not enough to claim victory over the calamitous creature of everlasting darkness, and whatever strength had not already been stolen from her during the ordeal was quickly extinguished by the inescapable Curse of all humanity.

He was there beside her when she fell. When she collapsed into his arms, having succumbed finally to the pain besieging her body. They had already won, the enemy agents either exterminated or frightened away, but the fight had taken its toll on her, and her strength of will could no longer sustain her. He cried out her name in horror, the fear in his soul numbing every rational part of his being as the cries intensified in utter helplessness and panic. He clung to her pale form as if he was literally clinging to her last breath, willing it not to pass through her lips before she could be rescued from the brink of death. But it was too late. Her sky-blue eyes, light in color but with dark depths akin to that of two bottomless wells, seized hold of his own cisterns of sight, and with one unspoken word of reluctant defeat, she released the light held within them until her eyes were nothing more than empty orbs of blue-white glass. That precarious breath, which she had been holding within her chest, escaped from her lips despite his willfully powerful grasp upon it. And when that last wisp of warm air floated away from her, she fell limp in his tight embrace, inciting more cries of frenzied agony to emerge from his aching throat.

No one could tear him away from her at first; his grip on her body was too firm, too passionately determined to hold her close to him as if that could miraculously revive her. But the others finally succeeded in ripping her bloody form from his arms—the last act of eternal separation. He did not remember how long he screamed, how long it was before he finally came to his senses and realized that he had somehow ended up back in a room in the Sanctuary—_her _Sanctuary—curled up like a forlorn child upon his bed with his disheveled head buried in a tear-drenched pillow. All he remembered was her futile final stand against death and her body sagging against him as all life deserted her. And her eyes—searing his with a wordless plea to live, a silent unwillingness to depart from him, an unspoken scream of defiance against the very laws of Nature.

And suddenly, he knew he had to find her.

That was how he ended up beside her pallid, rigid corpse lying upon a cold metal stretcher in an isolated room, awaiting embalmment.

He still doesn't know exactly why he is here, sobbing hopelessly upon her marble skin. Is it because he needs to mourn and grieve by her side, or is there something more? Something inexplicable expressed in her last fiery gaze that still holds his heart captive and binds him to her? Something wild, something indomitable, something so utterly passionate and powerful that he cannot escape from its grasp?

Rapturously terrifying it is, the mere idea of her holding such command over him even in death.

He lifts his trembling fingers to her lifeless face and shakily traces every feature with gentle precision, committing the feel of it to memory. Even in this state she surpasses all possible boundaries of beauty—the ethereal hovers about her and entwines itself with her very flesh, sanctifying her in its holy serenity. His heart races at the sight of her, but suddenly it begins to bleed with every rapid beat as he once again remembers that she, his angel, lives no more. With a shuddering sob, he lowers his lips to hers, the breath of life meeting the stone of death, covering her with an anguished testimony to the passionate and unconditional love for her which he could never adequately express while she lived.

He then finds himself kissing the whole of her face and neck, part of his soul willing her to awake from this horrid dream and another part hurtling into despair at the prospect of letting her go forever. No, death cannot—_will _not—steal her from him! She will remain here in his arms, unharmed by the scourges of Nature and protected by the impenetrable shield of his love, and _nothing _can stop his will to keep her close to him.

But no matter how passionately determined his kisses are, she remains a motionless corpse emptied of a soul.

A soul…

A soul?

Suddenly, the spark of that which had once been the sign of divine inspiration fires like a shot through his entire being, igniting it in the white-hot flame of determination and ambition. He snaps upward, away from his beloved, consumed by the idea which has spontaneously overtaken his senses. A soul. A soul with the will to live, a soul so _passionately resolute _in the desire to live that nothing can destroy its Herculean power. Give her a soul and she can be revived—his angel, his beloved and most beautiful angel, brought back into the realm of life from which she was so determined not to depart.

But he suddenly realizes the insane folly of the notion, the rational mind of science reclaiming his thoughts. The soul is a force of life, yes, but it cannot be captured, cannot be delivered into a lifeless corpse to instigate revival.

Unless…

It is as if the entire room grows dark upon the sudden revelation that appears in his mind. The darkness, bearing down upon the whole of the atmosphere with the indescribable weight of what he has suddenly realized he must do. It closes in around him, choking and stifling his breath from all sides, striking a terror into his heart much like that which he felt at the moment of her death. But his will prevails over the darkness, and he makes his decision.

He is going to do this.

He _will _do it.

He _must. _For her.

He considers for a moment using one of his various electrical contraptions to aid him in his final endeavor. But after pondering upon this for a moment, he realizes that no machine can bring life, for it is missing one crucial element.

The _human _element.

An element which _he_ still possesses, despite his transformation all those years ago.

The army which he once attempted to construct was awakened by his own blood, his own machinery, and his own genius. But they were mere corpses animated only in the flesh, revived only in their physical senses and the inner workings of their once dead bodies. They were automatons that clung to his words and acted without feeling, without anything that so much as resembled true _life_. They were awakened by him, yes, but only by calculated science and nothing of humanity. He poured into them basic operations, basic reflexes, basic foundations of intellect. But they were not truly _alive_. They could never be, because he never imparted upon them the gift of his spirit, that which he could never quite understand through rational principles but that which he _knew_ in his heart was the one thing that placed mankind above all other creation.

She will need his blood, yes. But unlike the robotic creatures he fashioned, she needs to _live_, fully and completely, and for that she needs more than a mere electrical shock. She needs _him._

For the first time since her unwilling death, he is stirred to action and becomes intensely focused on what he must do rather than solely upon his emotions. He wildly scans the room in which they are entombed for anything that he can use to carry out his plan. On the far table he spies a syringe, not yet filled with any mummifying fluid, and he quickly swipes the tool into his hand before hastily rolling his sleeve up to expose his pale arm. Without so much as a moment of hesitation, he plunges the needle into his skin, wincing at the stab of pain as he withdraws the dark red elixir from his vein. Once finished, he carefully lays the instrument back upon the table and makes his way back to the stretcher on which her body lies.

Now he must do the one thing he swore never to do from the day he first began to change.

The thought of it repulses him, although somewhere in his subconscious mind the unsatisfied desire stirs restlessly among the shadows. But without this, he knows that she cannot receive what he aims to give her. He needs to do this, to mark her as his own before pouring life into her once more. Although he never gave his army _true _life, he still imparted upon them the mark of his own vitality, which bound them to him in flesh. And to live, she needs spirit _and _flesh to be resurrected.

His eyes glance delicately over her figure before he lowers his lips to the base of her swan-like neck, his body trembling in trepidation and guilt. "I'm sorry," he whispers softly through a fresh cascade of hot tears. "But I have to do this."

He inhales one more breath of the sweet aroma that still lingers on her skin. And then, gathering his reluctant courage, he presses his mouth firmly against her neck and sinks his teeth deeply into her flesh, unwittingly tasting her blood upon his tongue. He lingers just long enough to leave an impression before he swiftly extricates himself from her, tears streaming down his face and mingling with the blood on his lips.

It pains him to see the small scarlet mark blazing upon her pallid skin, yet he knows that she needs to be bound to him for this to work. And so he carefully backs toward the table, clasping the syringe in his long fingers before returning to her side. He grips the instrument in one hand, which he attempts to steady from its quivering. Then, holding the capsule so tightly that it cannot escape from his grasp, he drives the needle into the incision in her neck, pumping his blood into hers, mixing one life with another, until the syringe is empty. He then withdraws the needle carefully and quickly returns the tool to the metal table before rejoining her.

It is near completion now.

She bears his mark, she carries his blood. Now all she needs is that final spark of life.

He cannot help but sob in abject fear of the last task at hand. With the creatures it was so easy—too easy. But then he didn't have to sacrifice so much, then did not need to bestow upon them the most valuable element held within him. Then he was not entangled in an inescapable web of passionate, unconquerable, willing love. But now he is, and what that love demands of him is far more terrifying than anything he has ever encountered before.

For a moment, he hesitates.

But one more glance at her lifeless angelic face and he knows that this is worth the sacrifice.

The foreboding darkness closes in around him as he draws the white sheet away from her chin and lays his warm hand upon the cold skin of her chest. This is it. The moment of reckoning, the final act of desperation. He lowers his lips to hers again to grant her one last kiss before he fulfills his plan.

"_Ljubvati__," _he whispers against her mouth, "My love…" And then he straightens himself up, prepared to do what he has resolved to do.

Gritting his teeth in determination, he stretches his free hand toward the unlit lamp hanging low from the ceiling. He closes his fingers around the light socket and then squeezes his eyes shut, concentrating on the igniting force within him.

"_Volim te_…I love you, Hel—"

The lightning breaks loose.

He screams, shrill cries of insurmountable pain wreaking havoc upon the cold walls of the room as the voltage surges through his body and into hers. A writhing halo of electricity shoots out around him, pierces through him, sears through his flesh and his spirit, ripping one away from the other. He can feel it as he shrieks in agony—the life within him being torn from his body by an unseen force, as if _she_ is draining it from him…and the pain is unbearable, excruciating, insufferable. He lets out a bloodcurdling screech as the last shards of his soul are stripped entirely away amid the violent seizures quaking through his body.

This is it.

The ultimate sacrifice of desperate, unconditional love before an all-too familiar white flash consumes him in its blinding light.

And then, suddenly, it is all over.

* * *

A sudden gasp of air surges through her throat and she bolts upright, eyes snapping open and meeting nothing but complete darkness. She stifles a scream of terror and confusion as she frantically writhes beneath what feels like a thin sheet upon her body, realizing that it is the only thing covering her. Where is she? What is happening? Why is she unclothed, covered only by a sheet and concealed in a cold room devoid of light?

And what is that strange pang of pain coming from the base of her neck?

Instinctively, she clutches the sheet to her chest in one hand while her other hand flies to her neck. Her fingers brush against something warm and wet, and suddenly, upon feeling the strange substance, everything comes flooding back to her.

The chase, the shots, the screams of pain as she was hit, the scarlet rivers of blood pouring down her skin, her collapsing into the arms of her companion, the dizzy realization of what was happing, her last determined gaze into his eyes as he cried out for her and clutched her hopelessly to him. And then…

Nothing. Just a flash of light…

Before she awoke here.

Suddenly, it hits her.

In a panicked frenzy, she kicks her feet free of the sheet and scrambles to the floor, hastily wrapping the cloth around her. She stumbles through the dark, fumbling her way through empty air until she knocks into something cold and hard that feels suspiciously like a wall. Her hand gropes the frigid surface desperately as the same petrifying thought runs through her mind over and over and over again. She is dead, _dead_, and damned to a dark hell for all eternity, never to escape, never to see light, never to—

She stops.

Her fingers have found a light switch.

Breathing a deep sigh of relief, she flicks the switch and in a second, light floods the room, momentarily blinding her. She blinks several times before the room comes into focus. And then when she finally sees where she is, she gasps in shock.

The Sanctuary morgue…

She really was dead.

_Was _dead.

But dead no more?

Before fear and confusion can overcome her again, she suddenly spies something behind the stretcher she was presumably lying on when she awoke. Pushing the frightened thoughts from her mind, she shakily makes her way across the cold floor toward whatever-it-is that is peeking out from behind the stretcher, curiosity getting the better of her. She doesn't know why, but she feels drawn to it somehow, as if she _has _to see what it is—that, and the pain in her neck is for some reason intensifying with every step she takes—

And then she stops dead in her tracks.

And finally lets out a scream of horror.

There, lying motionless on the floor, is Nikola Tesla.

She repeatedly cries out his name in panic as she falls to her knees and frantically crawls to his head and grabs his face in her hands. But before she can begin to shake his body to stir him awake, her eyes meet glass orbs of blue-white, empty and devoid of any spark of life.

The shriek that emerges from her throat then is so shrill, so anguished, and so piercing that it hardly even sounds human.

The hot tears of agony begin pouring down her face and her body quakes with desperate sobs as she clutches his lifeless body to hers and rocks him back and forth in her arms. She cries out his name over and over again, cradling his head to her chest and sobbing helplessly into his hair, begging him to come back. But there is no response. He is gone, gone forever, and there is nothing that can will him back to life.

Reluctantly she lifts his head away from her and lays it upon her lap so she can close his eyes in the final sleep of mortal life. She leans over to grant him a final kiss, but then she suddenly spies the blood upon his lips, and pauses.

A sudden realization dawns on her and her hand once more flies to the wound on her neck. Her fingers brush against the wet substance again and she brings them to her face for a closer look.

Blood.

She nearly shrieks again, but the sound is caught in her throat when her eyes inadvertently catch a glimpse of something lying upon the far table.

A syringe, just barely tinted red…

Then she looks back down and suddenly sees his right hand lying open against the cold floor.

Blackened, distorted, shriveled…as if it has been burned…

And then the weight of the truth comes crashing into her.

"No…_NO_!" she screams before erupting into sobs again and clutching his body once more to her chest and desperately kissing his face in abject grief. "No, no you can't have…_no_, Nikola, _NO_!"

But he has.

He has given her his life. His spirit is hers now—everything that once kept him alive now resides within her, breathing life into her being instead of into his. Her life is now bound to what was once his, and with every breath, every heartbeat, every tear, his life courses through her, a powerful current sustaining her once-dead body and animating her with what is now her soul. It is a current so strong that even her will for him to live again is not enough to destroy it. It is a current so unmistakably powerful that not even death itself can block its path. It is a current fashioned from something embedded deep within humanity—something so willing, so passionate, so determined to give, even to the point of complete sacrifice.

And nothing, _nothing_, will ever have the power to conquer it.

* * *

**FIN**


End file.
